


Because the Coat

by rivers_bend



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, background Aimee/Ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>As fond as Nick is of Harry’s naked skin and ridiculous tattoos, it’s possible—</i>possible<i>, mind—that he is even more fond of Harry’s new <a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/4f8b7b7d0c0b83099d5b59fdfc46d1bf/tumblr_miem6oWEfJ1rnntmfo1_500.jpg">coat</a>.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Because the Coat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beckaandzac (becka)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/gifts), [LittleMousling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/gifts).



> I do not know any of the people whose names and public personas are used in this story and neither believe nor mean to imply any of this ever happened. 
> 
> Thank you to estrella for reading this over.

Friday night, and Nick’s at the pub with Aimee, waiting for Harry to be done with rehearsals for the day and Ian to finish up a meeting. Harry blows in first, and Nick almost swallows his tongue when he catches sight of him. As fond as Nick is of Harry’s naked skin and ridiculous tattoos, it’s possible— _possible_ , mind—that he is even more fond of Harry’s new coat. It’s black, and thick, and long, and hangs like a dream, even though it’s slightly too big, looks, in fact, like it might fit Nick better than it fits Harry. 

“Nice coat,” he says dismissively when Harry rolls up to their table, looking artfully disheveled and like he has a pop-star’s clothing budget. “D’you get it off the homeless man on the corner?” 

“I was going to let you borrow it,” Harry says, clearly a lie, because why would anyone let that coat off their back if they had it? “But see if I do now.” 

“Wouldn’t touch it with yours,” Nick scoffs, even as he’s reaching up to finger the heavy lapel. God, it’s gorgeous. Nick has some great coats, but somehow he always wants more. 

“Uh huh,” Harry says, doing that thing with his eyebrow and twisting his mouth like he’s trying not to laugh. He slips the coat off his shoulders, sliding his arms free, and then leans across Nick to kiss Aimee hello, adding his coat to the pile she’s got on the banquette next to her. “You look stunning,” he tells her. “And I like your hair like that.”

“Stop it, Harold. She looks perfectly normal,” Nick says. He’s budged up so Harry can fit in next to him, but Harry’s still standing next to the table like he’s waiting for an invitation. 

“ _You_ look like something the cat’s dragged in,” Harry says, giving Nick a mock glare. “What are you drinking? I’ll get a round.” 

“Ooh, Ian’s almost here,” Aimee says, looking up from her phone. “He’ll want a pint I expect. I’m on vodka cranberries tonight.” 

“Bottle of Cristal for me, popstar,” Nick says. His drink is only half gone, so he’s pretty sure it’s obvious that he’s on vodka cranberry too. 

“Sure,” Harry answers easily. “I’ll get you two.” The thing with Harry is, he actually might. And Nick’s not in the mood for champagne. Not on top of the fish-and-chips he picked up on the way over and the three vodkas he’s had waiting for Harry to get here. Oh well. He can nick Aimee’s drink and make her drink the bubbly. 

He tries not to be too obvious about watching Harry’s arse as he shimmies toward the bar in his skinny black jeans and not-quite-tight-enough black t-shirt. In fact, Nick’s pretty sure that’s his t-shirt, because the two Harry has that faded are a couple years old, and and might have fit his seventeen-year-old body, but are just that perfect bit too snug now. But Nick is not going to think about Harry’s seventeen-year-old body, because he’ll end up weeping into his drink, telling the story about the time a shopgirl thought he was Harry’s dad. Again. And Aimee has promised to cut his dick off if she has to hear that story one more time. 

“It is a nice butt,” Aimee says slyly when she catches him. “Not as nice as Ian’s though.” 

“How very dare you,” Nick says. Though Ian does have a fairly nice arse. 

Speaking of which, there it is at the bar, right next to Harry’s. Harry’s waving off Ian’s money, though he does let the man help carry the drinks, and it looks like Harry wasn’t being serious about the Cristal. 

 

It’s a good night, even though he and Harry have to watch Ian and Aimee make moon eyes at each other, and when Nick points out that they are being absolutely disgusting, the two of them fall about laughing, gasping like landed fish as they point back and forth between Harry and Nick. 

“I never,” Nick says, which makes Harry put his chin on his hands and flutter his eyelashes while Nick’s traitor friends laugh even harder. But other than _that_ it’s a good night, and they’re all pleasantly pissed when the barman calls last orders.

“You taking me home?” Harry leans in to whisper in Nick’s ear. Only it’s more like into the corner of Nick’s mouth, because none of the boys in the world’s biggest boy band understands how whispering is supposed to work. Or dancing. They are a blight on the pop world, honestly. 

“Course I am,” Nick whispers back in the direction of a massive curl on the side of Harry’s head. 

“I’m taking this one home,” Ian says, not whispering at all. “And we’re going to have lots of sex.” 

“Oh my god,” Aimee says, smacking him on the shoulder and laughing. “I don’t think they quite heard you in Kensington.” 

“I will totally do you in Kensington, too,” Ian adds, patting Aimee’s knee. 

Aimee laughs again. “Just stop talking, and find us a bloody taxi.” She gives Ian a little shove so she has room to slide out of the booth, then starts handing out coats. Nick reaches for Harry’s, but Harry snatches it before he can get it. 

“I was just going to be a gentleman,” Nick protests. Which is a lie, although now he’s said it, he’s itching to hold Harry’s coat for him, watch the back of his neck disappear behind the collar as Nick settles it over his shoulders. 

Like he sees something in Nick’s face, Harry stops groping for his own sleeve and hands the coat over. Nick can feel himself melt into one of the sappy smiles that he tries to reserve for the privacy of his flat, and he avoids Aimee’s knowing look as he hefts the heavy wool, opens it for Harry’s arms, and wraps it around him. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs, tucking his chin over Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s hand reaches back and pats him once on the hip. 

“I’m not standing here all night,” Aimee says, breaking the spell. She’s still got Nick’s coat in one hand, hers in the other. Harry takes Nick’s from her, kissing her cheek again as he does, and then holds it out for Nick the way Nick held his. This time Nick manages to fight back the stupid smile. 

Usually the four of them would share a cab, but somehow there are no paps to be seen tonight, and Ian and Aimee are already all over each other, so Nick ushers them into the first car at the rank while he waves Harry toward the second one. Obediently, Harry ducks inside and waits for Nick to join him before giving the cabbie Nick’s address. 

The way Harry’s sitting, his coat’s all twisted around his hips, the opening more on the side than the front. It makes a sort of cave over Harry’s lap. Nick tries not to look at it, because it seems to be calling to his hand. Looking at his face isn’t much better though. Harry’s wearing his hungry, fuck-me-now-please expression. He _knows_ he’s not supposed to do that when they’re out. 

“Harry,” Nick says, low enough so the driver can’t hear. He hopes. 

“Yeah?” Harry replies, scooting a little closer, which just makes the whole cave/lap situation worse, and makes it so Nick can feel the heat coming off his thigh. 

“Harry,” Nick says again, actually pained this time. He reaches for Harry’s knee, maybe meaning to push him away, or— Who is he trying to kid. He’s reaching into the dark folds of Harry’s coat, aiming for the bulge he knows he’ll find behind Harry’s flies. 

“Mmmgh,” Harry says when Nick finds what he’s looking for, though to his credit, he keeps his voice low, and doesn’t do anything else to indicate to someone looking in the rearview mirror that he’s about to get a hand job. 

And that’s the trouble, isn’t it? The evil minx of a devil child is about to get a hand job under his absurdly expensive wool trench coat in the back of a London cab. 

Harry’s jeans are tight, but old enough that the flies open easily one handed, and Nick can slip his fingers inside, get Harry’s cock up against his belly, tease him through his pants. 

“I hate you,” Harry murmurs, tipping his head back against the seat, angled just enough so it’s brushing Nick’s shoulder. _I hate you_ is Nick’s line, but Harry borrows it occasionally. It means the same no matter which of them says it. 

“Love you too,” Nick whispers, soft as he can in Harry’s ear. “Gonna make a mess of that coat of yours.” He’s not really. He has no intention of getting Harry out of his pants, and his shirt’s long enough to give an extra layer of protection. Comestains are a pain in the arse to get out of dry-clean-only clothes. 

But, “‘Kay,” Harry says, like he wouldn’t mind if Nick did. 

“God, Haz,” Nick sputters. How did he even end up with this boy? He’s never thought of himself as particularly good, not in any way that earns karma points, but he must have done _something_. 

“Make me dirty, Nick. Please,” Harry says, doing a better job of aiming his lips at Nick’s ear this time. And fuck, how is a guy supposed to say no to that?

Moving his arm as little as possible, Nick strokes his fingers along Harry’s shaft, gets his thumb up to rub the crown, find the damp cloth at the tip. Harry’s hips jerk, so Nick does it again, glancing out the window to see how much time they have. Seven or eight minutes, maybe. Should be enough. Harry’s pretty easy when he wants to be, and listening to his breathing over the sound of the driver’s music, he’s worked himself up. 

This is stupid, what they’re doing, and Nick’s sober enough to know it, but not quite sober enough to care. There are arseholes with telephoto lenses they might have missed outside the pub, and people with camera phones at traffic lights, and the driver himself could be a fan, though whatever he’s got on the radio isn’t in English, and he didn’t seem to recognize them when they got in, so probably not. Still, Nick stops petting Harry’s dick long enough to say his name again, infusing it with as much _are you sure about this?_ as he can while whispering. 

Harry must get it, because he nods, one quick jerk of his head, eyes on Nick’s face. When Nick starts moving again, Harry’s lips turn up in a smile. 

The handjob itself is not Nick’s best work, hampered as he is by clothing and circumstance, but it gets him so fucking hot that he can’t feel any shame. The coat still smells new, but already smells of Harry as well—the spicy aftershave he’s taken to wearing, his shampoo and whatever it is he puts in his hair to make it shine the way it does, even Zayn’s (they’d better be Zayn’s and not some other pretty boy’s) cigarettes. Nick wants to bury his face in it, right where the collar touches Harry’s throat. It’s heavy against his wrist and forearm, like it’s trapping him there, Harry’s dick in his palm. And it’s trapping the smell of sex, and covering the shift of Harry’s hips, and the lining is satin-slick against the back of Nick’s hand, such a contrast to the wool against his cheek, and Nick hasn’t come in his pants without a hand in there too in well over a decade, but he’s suddenly remembering what that was like. 

And Harry, beautiful, crazy, Harry, has got one foot hooked around Nick’s near ankle, a hand clutching Nick’s own, less enticing, coat, and they’re only three streets from Nick’s flat now, but Harry’s closer than that. Harry’s got his eyes closed and his lips parted, and he looks like sin, and Nick just hopes no one’s watching as Harry tries to keep still as possible as he comes. 

Nick strokes him through it, letting the cotton of his pants and his tee soak up his come, smearing it over as much of his stomach as he can, because Harry did ask Nick to make him dirty, and when it suits him, Nick can do as he’s told. 

“Fuck,” Harry hisses as the cab lurches to a stop outside the flat. 

“You’ll have to wait til we’re upstairs,” Nick returns, digging in his pocket with his clean hand for some cash to pay the fare. He tells the driver to keep the change, and practically drags Harry out into the street. 

Harry has his coat bundled around him, chin tucked low, a habit since paps started hanging round Nick’s on the weekends, but even in the shadows cast by the streetlamps, Nick can see the way his cheeks are creased with a grin. Nick gets his keys out, doesn’t put an arm around him, even though he wants to, and in moments, they’re inside. 

“Can’t believe you did that,” Harry says, as soon as the door shuts behind them. Nick turns to find him with his hands in his pockets holding his coat open, looking down at the darker spot on his shirt, at where his pants are still open over his wet boxer briefs. “Sex in the back of a cab.” He looks up at Nick and gives him a heart-melting grin. “Nicolas Grimshaw, you _naughty boy_.” 

“Just don’t tell my mum,” Nick mutters, finally getting the door to the flat open, wishing he weren’t blushing.

“I would never,” Harry says, pressing up behind him to push him inside. “I love your mum.” 

Nick gets Harry up against the door and kisses him before the conversation gets any more out of hand. 

Usually, if no one else is around, kissing Harry kicks off some sort of magical series of events that has Harry naked before Nick can figure out what’s happening. He’s tried to watch, tried to pay attention, but Harry has the most distracting mouth of anyone ever, and also seems possessed of a melt-away wardrobe. This time, though, he doesn’t even take his coat off. Nick’s, yes, and Nick’s pretty sure it ends up on the foyer floor, which they are going to have words about, later, when Harry’s tongue isn’t in Nick’s mouth, when his hands aren’t up under Nick’s shirt, skimming and pressing and kneading and god only knows what. Then Nick’s arse hits the back of the sofa, and Harry stops pushing and drops to his knees. 

And, just. He’s got to stop doing that, because Nick does not have infinite resources of, of, something, and oh, fuck, now Harry’s tugging at his flies, pulling his jeans and briefs down over his hips, kneeling there, in a fucking wool trench coat with sleeves just a little bit too long, pulling Nick’s cock out and aiming it for his mouth. 

“Harry,” Nick says. Whines. He whines it, okay? And whatever. That fucking coat. It’s not Nick’s fault. “Harry. You—“ 

But Harry just flips his hair off his face with the patented neck-roll-finger-shove thing that’s been caught on film a million times, that’s spawned a trillion gifs, gifs Nick knows for a _fact_ Finchy has a whole folder of on his work computer, probably waiting for just the right moment to use for some nefarious purpose. But for Nick, Harry adds this hot-eyed stare, and then his mouth is opening around Nick’s cock, wide and wet and generous. Even greedy. Nick does love when Harry gets greedy about Nick’s cock. Nick suspects Harry knows this. 

Harry’s also greedy about Nick’s hands, and he reaches up, pulls them from where they’re helping hold Nick up against the back of the sofa, puts one in his hair, the other on the collar of the coat. Which just goes to show that Nick is approximately the least subtle person ever. 

Once he’s sure Nick’s not going to try to take his hands away, Harry lets his fall behind his back where they disappear into his sleeves, though Nick’s seen him with his fingers clasped together enough times to imagine what it looks like. Nick makes a low, moaning, desperate sound, and Harry spreads his knees a little wider, tips his head to give a better angle for Nick to fuck his mouth, and how the fuck is Nick going to stay on his feet for this? The sofa back is not nearly enough support. 

But if he concentrates on the feel of Harry’s coat in his fist, the tangle of his hair around Nick’s fingers as Nick guides his mouth up and down his cock, he can keep a grip on reality. Just. 

As Nick gets a rhythm going, Harry starts pulling against his hold, trying to get deeper, go faster, and Nick gives up his shallow thrusts and goes for it, popping his hips, using Harry’s mouth and throat, babbling nonsense about how good Harry feels, how hot he looks, stupid ego-stroking stuff, every bloody word of which is true. 

And then, when Nick is almost there, Harry pulls off completely, mouth and cheeks dark pink, gasping, “Face— come on—“ 

“Coat,” Nick says, though why the fuck does he care? Harry can afford all the dry cleaning, he can afford a new bloody coat, but there it is, Harry’s magic, because without taking his hands from behind his back, Harry shrugs, and the coat slips down his arms, puddles around his hips, leaving his face and chest and lap a clear target. Nick takes himself in hand and tugs, short sharp pulls that have him spurting a few seconds later, jizz landing on Harry’s nose, his cheek, the shoulder of Nick’s stolen shirt. 

“Jesus,” Nick breathes when Harry just kneels there, looking up at him, hands still in the coat’s sleeves, Nick’s come on his face. And that’s it for Nick’s knees; he gives up and slides down onto the floor, legs splayed around Harry’s spread knees. “You really are a menace, Styles,” he says when his arse hits the carpet. 

“I know.” Harry sounds happy about it. As per fucking usual. Finally, _finally_ , he frees his hands from their self-imposed prison and wipes his face. Then wipes his fingers on his shirt, right across the chest, up to the streak on the shoulder, where he rubs some more for good measure. 

“That’s my shirt, you know,” Nick says. 

“Wanted you to have something to remember me by while I’m gone.” 

“Oh you did, did you?” Leave it to Harry bloody Styles to think a jizz-encrusted t-shirt is a proper leaving present. 

“You know you’re going to sleep with it under your pillow.” Harry pulls it off, folds it so the back is outermost and uses that to scrub at his face a bit. Then he sniffs it almost delicately before handing it over with a flourish. 

“You’re demented,” Nick points out. He feels this is something Harry should know about himself. 

“And you’re delusional.” 

Nick takes the proffered shirt. And sniffs it. Because something is wrong with him. It reeks, unsurprisingly, of sex. And Harry. And damn it, Nick actually considered it for a moment. Being able to smell this when it’s been too many days without Harry’s face. “I hate you,” Nick says. 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, shiffling closer, knees nudging under Nick’s thighs, close enough so Harry can lean in and kiss him. “I love you, too.”


End file.
